


Forever Until The End

by autopsydoe



Category: Chronicle (2012)
Genre: First Person Point of View, Friendship, Ghosts in the walls right?, M/M, This makes absolutely no sense, general lack of rimming, i forgot, no mentions of Matt, written in the perspective of Steve Montgomery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:30:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7395037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autopsydoe/pseuds/autopsydoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The haunting of Steve Montgomery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever Until The End

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically a retelling of Chronicle with a poetically vague twist. Andrew is a ghost. Steve is his best friend.

There is something so unforgiving about becoming infatuated with a spirit. He used to be invisible, hidden behind a layer of teenage bodies and unfinished book reports. He never showed up to any of the pep rallies or the school assemblies. He might as well had been a ghost, roaming the halls while trying to cover his vulnerabilities with a mask. And I knew that mask, it was carefully crafted so that his smooth skin could be hidden with rough edges; it was easier that way, you see, to pretend to be a part of the walls. 

When I met the ghost, I could see right through him. He had the sobering sound of his mother’s sobs in his pocket, as if to remember that he had to pick up her medicine, as if to remember that he had to remember in the first place. He had drooping blue eyes and a chapped smile, but I couldn’t notice anything other than the bruises that wrapped around his thin wrist. We both seemed too young in that moment, but he remained silent. Ghosts aren’t really conversationalists. I did most of the talking. I wondered if he had other things in his pockets, but never asked. 

I got used to his mask. When it slipped, accompanied by a broken cry, I allowed him to secure it back onto his face. He apologized far more than he spoke. He never trusted me, not really. I could tell he was weary of my social standing, constantly and consistently wondering if I was another hallucination or perhaps, a joke. I told him I wanted to be his friend, and he eyed me up, clinging onto the remains of a video camera. I knew it was filming, I could see the red light glinting. ‘’Okay,’’ he said, eyebrows furrowing. I smiled.

Ghosts don’t usually carry around cameras, but I figured this was his unfinished business. Or maybe it was a larger wall between him and the world around us. He would watch me, through the viewfinder, as I roamed into the world he detested. ‘’I’ll stay here,’’ he would say, lurking beside something solid, and I would walk towards the trigger of anxiety he strayed from. Sometimes, when the world looked empty, he would follow. 

One night, when clouds pooled around the moon, we ended up in the middle of a field. He jerked at every sound, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the monster was already inside of him. The hole in the ground was out of place, I could tell. But that didn’t stop me from barrelling down it, ending up in a murky void with a disembodied voice shouting after me. I knew he was afraid, but I kept going. I walked, with his anxious steps behind me, until a hollow blue color splashed upon my dark face. It was unlike anything I had seen before. 

‘’We should go,’’ he said, I noted the panic in his voice as he approached the alien source of light. It pulsed blue and red, which only spurred him further towards me. ‘’Please,’’ he whispered, as if someone else was in the room with us. I wanted to move desperately, but my body felt languid and my vision blurred.  
I could barely hear his voice over the sound that had broken past the barrier of silence. I felt his fingers clutch onto my T-shirt, and I watched as blood ran down his lip from his nose. The noise was so loud, I couldn’t hear myself think or the sound of our genetics being altered with an unforgiving pain that seemed to pull all the air out of the room. I watched him gasp, but his breath was caught in his throat - and then, my vision swam until there was nothing. As I collapsed, he followed. 

I wasn’t aware that ghosts could weep as much as he did. We returned back to my home, somehow making it from underground to the bruising suburbs with a certain fire coursing through our veins. We barely made it up the stairs, but once the door to my bedroom was open, the ghost fell. He materialized, suddenly more alive than I had ever seen him, even as he fell asleep. I didn’t comment when he melted against the sheets, or when transparency looked more like raw power than see-through bones. 

The next day, the ghost and I were levitating baseballs in my backyard. The only thing he ever held in his hands was the camera, but now, there was no need. It hovered in mid-air, constantly above him, filming my every move. I didn’t ask. I couldn’t ask. The powers, though patient and steady, settled improperly on my shoulders. I almost questioned if he felt the same, but then I remembered that we are not the same. How easy it is to forget. 

He looked so human in my eyes, even when we soared above the clouds. I wondered if he was the memory of someone who once existed, bright and happy and alive. Then, as I dived into the condensation, I realized how unkind it was to want him to be something different. When he laughed, I swore there was a God somewhere. It’s impossible for someone this angelic to exist without God - and then, as I stuttered to a halt, I remembered.

There were times when I had the audacity to believe he could be different. We stood on a stage in front of the entire school - and for a single moment, he was vivid. He took up space, solid and concrete despite the lack of body. I thought it was the power thrumming through his veins, holding him up like a puppeteer would a doll. It was both horrifying and stunning all at once. When he relished in the aftermath of his success, I smiled but it didn’t quite meet my eyes. I watched him trail off with her, though his feet didn’t touch the ground; a ghost or a necromancer? I didn’t ponder the thought. I only turned and walked.

I was afraid to tell him that he wouldn’t be able to touch her, so I did not. I was not made out of bravery, and neither was she. I heard the tempered screams of the pink haired girl from the stairs of the house, her shrieks were heard over the beat of the music, but it did not compare to the sound of violence forcing itself from under the floorboards. She ran past me, ectoplasm sticking to her like a second skin. I swallowed the dread that rose in my throat.  
The ghost, though hollow and out of reach, cried. I watched him tug up the clothes that never quite fit him, they hung off of him loosely and covered as much of his transparency as possible; but in this moment, in the dimly lit lighting, he looked exposed. He reminded me of raw pain, like knees dragging against the pavement and the stale bubbling of blood along a fresh cut. He was speaking to me, but I couldn’t understand the words. I reached for him but found nothing but empty space. 

It is important to remember that monsters, despite their reputation, are not always what they seem. My ghost, quiet and unresponsive, followed me until I had no choice but to follow him. And I did, even as the sky opened up and graced us both with enough rain to drown a city. I pleaded for him to come back with me, even as the sky snapped at us like a peering snake. He told me that our friendship had been fictional, and when the world above us opened up to give weapons to his words, I remained quiet. 

When the lightning made target practice of my body, I couldn’t look away from him. I had never felt more vital in the darkening haze of death because he looked alive. When you’re losing your vision, even the deceased are living. I wondered if we were finally going to be similar, both able to blend into concrete surfaces and hide in plain sight. I was wrong. There is a difference between a ghost and a friend. One roams, the other follows.


End file.
